


Cream

by QDS



Category: Inglourious Basterds
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-29
Updated: 2009-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QDS/pseuds/QDS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 'Landa/Shoshanna, fingering and oral sex, with her standing and him on his knees.' prompt on the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/100_scalps/2579.html">kink meme</a> at <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/100_scalps/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/100_scalps/"><b>100_scalps</b></a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Cream

  
A knock on the door of the projection room. Shosanna Dreyfuss' body went very still. In the normal running of the theatre, she and Marcel had to contend with those who wanted a peek 'behind the scenes.' They had a policy of being left alone to do their work, and most of the time, they had little trouble explaining this to people so they understood.

But with a theatre full of Nazi's who were more than aware of the power they held in this situation, she was going to have to be a little more careful.

She clenched her fist, slowly walked to the door, and opened it with steely purpose...and was very grateful to be holding the door when she saw who it was.

Shosanna found herself wishing, despite him having brought her to this situation, that it had been that full-of-himself moron Zoller.

"Colenel Landa."

*

After death, Hans Landa reasoned, there was life. Invigorating as it had been watching the life slip away from the traitorous Bridget under his own hands (watching the sparks in her eyes disappear, that feeling of power in his very hands), he needed something to wipe the stain of death from his hands.

One of so-called 'eye-talians' (he inwardly shuddered at the Americans' insulting attempt at the beautiful language) had been snatched, along with another accomplice, and taken elsewhere for questioning. The remaining two...well, that would all depend on the outcome of his interrogation of the others. Landa was rather excited about questioning the Americans, and further more, he was very much looking forward to executing his plans to leave Europe.

But for now, he stood in the doorway of the projection room, facing the young woman whose demeanour in the restaurant only mere days before had intrigued him.

Full of life, and full of a burning fire with which he wanted to play.

Poor Zoller, besotted with a girl who was simply not interested in him (the boyish prat). Of course, Zoller wasn't without his conniving. The lad had, after all, managed to wrangle the screening at this cinema for the sake of her, and as Landa well knew, she could scarcely protest the situation.

Emmanuelle had done her best in the restaurant to hold her dignity. That Landa had instantly admired. As her beautiful as her features were (despite the workers clothes) her stand-offishness and defiant eyes had been even more enticing.

How she would acquiesce to more...carnal wishes was going to be a tasty challenge.

"Mlle. Mimieux. I trust the evening is going well?"

She inhaled. Landa could see she was preparing to brush him off, and he readied himself.

*

She remembered her anger, and tried to fight it with her fear. She hoped it was enough that she looked aloof, determined, and not terrified that he may recognise her.

"I am working Colonel, and I do it best alone. If you excuse me--"

He smacked the door aside, and strode forward. Surprised, she stumbled back towards the projector. Quickly, he slammed the door shut, though didn't bother to lock it. His eyes were on her completely. She couldn't reach for her gun, for he would be too fast.

She controlled her breathing while rapidly trying to form a new plan.

*

A fighter. Excellent. He was almost tempted to strike her across the face, for the shock, but he feared that might ruin her beautiful make-up. Even in her surprise, she remained fierce. Yes, this was going to be a battle worth winning.

"Now, Mlle. Mimieux...may I call you Emmanuelle?"

She blinked. His sudden violence, followed by his politeness, had startled her, no doubt. How would she react?

"I...you..."

She was fumbling. Hmm, that was less attractive. Like Bridget. How much sexier the dead woman would have been if she had fought back harder.

Then Emmanuelle grinned sardonically, and she chuckled a little.

"Does it really matter, Colonel Landa?" She held her hands out in mock supplication. "You can call me what you will. You have all cards. What does it matter what I want?"

That was better. A much more interesting turn of events. "Ah, but then where is the pleasure of it then? Is there no room for culture, manners, basic decency even in times such as ours? You are French, I am German, for all intents and purposes we are enemies, myself an invader in your land and you are in my power, you are no doubt thinking."

She didn't move, but her eyes were strong, and almost bemused with him. An excellent sign.

He shortened the distance between them. She didn't step backwards, but her body swayed away from his. It was enough fear to go straight to his cock, give him the beginnings of a hard-on.

"Of course, perhaps what I have in mind means we will both get what we want."

Her swallow (the movement of her throat, the lovely fine neck, made his cock even harder) was a clear sign she knew what he meant.

*

Basic decency. She had fought back a snarl at him using the phrase. She had tried instead bemusement. Even as she worried, with each word out of his mouth, that he was going to reveal that he knew her to be the girl he had let run four years ago.

If we were to get what we both wanted, she thought, what we really, truly wanted...we'd both be dead.

That was it, she decided. He knew. Knew her real name, and that was it. The only comfort she had was that the plan could not go wrong now, and she had been preparing to meet her death regardless.

If only it would not be by his hand.

However, she would not go down without a fight. She stuck her chin out, bold and firm, a direct challenge even if her words were seemingly compliant.

"What did you have in mind?"

He launched himself at her, suddenly and violently, grabbed hold of her arms, and forced her back against the projector. She winced at the hard contact. He held her wrists down, and she struggled against him, but he made her stay still by pressing his whole weight against her.

They were nose to nose when she looked right into his eyes. They surprised her; hazel in colour, she'd expected cold blue, the perfect Aryan man of Hitler's imagining.

She hissed. Whatever the colour they were, the eyes were of man whose charm could be switched on and off like a light. Now she saw only ferocity, and she braced her body for the next impact.

Landa dropped to his knees. Then he let her wrists go, and he quickly hiked her dress up around her hips, and sharply tore away her stockings and garter belt. The roughness of the action frightened her a little, though it did not surprise her. His words were always charming and gentle, but his actions, ultimately, had never been such.

Her sex was exposed to him now, and she fought down her fear. Shosanna knew he would next unbutton his pants and simply force his cock inside her, without preparation. She stiffened, waiting for the pain.

But he didn't stand. Landa remained on his knees. He skimmed his finger tips on the outside of her bare thighs, but his gaze was focused entirely on her sex. She watched him carefully, and had to force her legs to remain still, as she saw in his eyes, though he tried to disguise it, a hunger.

"Ah, Emmanuelle. You are so delicate."

He blew against her pubic hair, the air ruffling it a little.

"Yet still so dry."

Oh for fuck's sake, did he honestly expect anything else? She thought.

He continued talking. "There are a number of delicacies on a woman's body. For instance --" He reached up and took hold of her right breast, squeezing it through her dress. "The breasts are two such delights, both firm and tender, like a ripe peach."

She twisted away slightly, and he let go, running his hand down the length of her body.

"The curve of the hips, begging for a pair of hands to embrace them, the way a musician holds a violin, another wonder."

He smoothed his hand over her hiked up dress, back to her bare thighs. He gestured towards her pubic hair, as if admiring an object in a museum. She wanted to kick him, but when she moved her leg he forced it down again.

"But this, Emmanuelle, this is the delicacy that really makes a woman. The folds, the circles around one another, the point of pleasure just above the wonderful entrance wherein lies much enjoyment for both men and women...yours is particularly beautiful. I am very much reminded of the apple strudel we had when we first met." He shook his head, as if gently scolding a child. "But you are still so dry. And as I told you before, one must always have strudel with the cream."

He looked up at her, his eyes burning, and she almost spat down at them.

"And your strudel is absolutely begging for your cream."

Oh for God's sake, she thought. When she was sure he was not looking at her face, she began to roll her eyes...and stopped immediately as he traced the folds of her sex with one fingernail. She jerked a little. It wasn't quite pleasure, but it was straining towards it, and each time he started again, he pressed a little harder, but only a little. She clenched her teeth. It was an irritating sensation. He didn't even seem to be enjoying it. He was following his fingernail with his eyes, concentrated like an artist sketching, doing nothing more than a simple exercise. It was only when he pressed her bud, that tight spot of nerves, that the hunger returned to his eyes.

He licked the inside of her thighs; first her right, then her left, and then blew on those same spots. Her legs stiffen at that, and she half tried to shuffle away, but she froze and whimpered when his teeth grazed one of those spots. A slow bite followed, and her hand flew to the back of his head. There was pain, and there was also pleasure. As she twined her fingers in his hair, she was torn between wanting to pull him away and wanting to pull him closer.

And she hated herself for it. This was the man who murdered her parents, her sister, her brother...the man who had insulted her lover...and now Colonel Landa was tormenting her in ways she never imagined he would.

He began sucking on that part of her thigh. As he continued, he reached around behind her, clasping her buttocks in his hands, forcing her closer to him. She wondered...had he left her alive just so he could continue to hunt her? So he could pursue her, like a game animal, for sport. Was that was why he was doing this now?

Suddenly he dug his fingers into the flesh of her buttocks, and gave the spot he'd been sucking a final, sharp bite. She cried out and was half grateful, half disappointed when he pulled away.

But then he began following the lines of her sex with his tongue. It was in a circular fashion, and each time he flicked past the knot of nerves at the top of her sex, she wanted to scream; in horror at herself, and for the teasing enjoyment as he was giving her. She grasped his hair tighter, and briefly considered dashing his head on the floor...and instead pulled his head closer to her.

She felt him chuckled against her, and he pulled back, smiling. "Ah, Emmanuelle...yes."

*

His efforts were affecting her despite herself. That he could tell. Her fingers in his hair...she wanted him closer, even though she was clutching his hair very hard, almost trying to pull it out at the root.

Landa grasped her thighs (lovely thighs, slender and supple in his hands), and spread them a bit wider as he moved back slightly to appraise his work. Her hand relaxed in his hair slightly. Perhaps she thought it was over? The thought made him grin. He had only just begun.

His eyes returned to the spot between her legs...and there it was. Emmanuelle's sex glistened with her inner juices and his saliva. It was all there for him, ready for him to lap up and devour completely.

He said her name several times, in between each time kissing a different part around her sex, each time catching a droplet of her creamy wetness, relishing it's taste. He stopped saying her name, but continued kissing those parts, never quite touching the inner most delicate folds, or the nub of pleasure that was now red and large with desire.

She began to tremble. Her thighs quivered, and she began to beg, quietly, almost against her will.

And then he knew she all his now. Time for the final act.

*

She said her name, over and over again. He teased her, not going anyway near her now aching spot, not touching the most tender folds. Her hands twisted in his hair again, wanting to rip it out as he said the name that was not hers.

"Emmanuelle..."

He kept his movement going, but stopped saying that name...

And a thought, a realisation began to form in her mind.

The thought gave her much delight, and as his mouth continued to tease her, she found herself giving over to his lips, because now she understood. She allowed her legs to tremble, allowed herself to beg. Oh yes, she wanted him to do exactly what he wanted to do.

He pulled back. His grin was triumphant. "Ah yes, Emmanuelle. That is much better."

He slid two fingers inside her, slowly, confidently, before crooking them around to find that spot to make her tingle all over.

"And now that the cream has more than certainly arrived..."

He arched his fingers again, and she gasped. The new thought allowed her to do so without guilt. She looked down at him, waiting for him to continue his game of words.

Another twist of his fingers. "It is time to fully enjoy the strudel."

As he brought his mouth to her sex, pushed the tip of his tongue onto that tight bundle of nerves Shosanna allowed herself to smile, allowed him to devour her sex, and gave herself over to her enemy's ministrations.

*

This is exactly how he wanted a woman to be; strong, defiant, and yet malleable in his hands. Beneath the softness inside her were muscles that contracted with a wonderful strength (how good would it feel once he could push his cock deep inside her tight passage...)

She tasted delightful; fresh, warm, clean. He stroked her insides with his two fingers, enjoying that warmth, like fresh pie. He caught it all her creaminess with his mouth while his tongue swirled her tender bud around and around. She cried out at every move, each sound making him harder and harder. But he didn't touch himself yet. That he would save for her. He moaned a little himself as he pictured how she would look with his cock in her mouth, his balls between her fingers, squeezing them...

She was lolling above him, absolutely enjoying his touch and his tongue. He paused, stopped moving completely for a long moment, and it was only when she whimpered that he began again, faster than before, then faster still, till his tongue was moving so fast he could scarcely feel it.

And as she came (panting, a gorgeous throaty sound emerging from that lovely mouth), she tightened around his fingers. Her body twitched and shook, and he saw her head loll from side to side as she rode the waves of the delicious sensation she must have felt, her eyes closed and her short sharp gasps.

He withdrew his fingers, looked up and saw her mouth open, still panting from the pleasure he'd given her. She wasn't looking at him, so he gave her nub a gentle brush with his tongue, and she gasped, eyes flicking down to his. He grinned, and her didn't leave her gaze as he licked and sucked his fingers until he could no longer taste her juices on them.

She leant down a little, ran her thumb over his lower lip.

"You do enjoy your milk and cream, Colenel Landa," she said.

His laugh was a short, surprised burst. This was a delicious sign; the girl could learn how to use words. With a little instruction, he could teach her well. She could be by his side, absorbing all he had to offer, becoming more than a simple theatre owner. He imagined her on his arm once in America, charming them all with her beauty and developing wit...and at night, he'd take her against a wall, her legs around his hips as hit all her internal pleasure spots and she spoke the words he taught her.

She pinched his chin, a teasing yet confident affection.

"And I am glad that before you died you got to taste the very best Jewish cream that the Dreyfuss dairy farm had to offer."

He frowned. Dreyfuss...but that was...

Oh.

It was one of those rare moments in Hans Landa's life were words failed to come immediately to mind. Ironically, as a bullet from the gun Shosanna Dreyfruss pulled from her nearby purse passed through that same mind, that moment became the very last of his life.

*

Shosanna put the gun back down, and pulled off the remains of her stockings, and tugged her dress back down over her still pulsing sex. At her feet lay Landa, blood seeping out of his head. She smiled, and stepped away from him, and sought out her cigarettes. She lit up, and lay an arm across the projector, waiting for her final reel to appear.

It was her name that gave it away. He was a man who lived on words, who relied on their power, knew exactly what they meant and what to do with them.

And without any irony, as his mouth had been completely intent on her sex, on eating her cream, he had called her 'Emmanuelle,' repeatedly. A man who specialised in words would have laid over her fake name with mocking tones. It would have sounded false in his mouth, but his voice betrayed the fact that he believed it.

From that point...well, what more suitable a final act for the Jew Hunter than to be on his knees in front of one of his hunted?

She took another drag from her cigarette. Revenge did indeed taste very sweet.

\--

End  



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